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Wednesday, June 18, 2003

 

Reverse Kingmaking Dept.



It pains me to do so, but I must officially declare Ashton Kutcher over.

So done. Over it. Whatever, next.

It seems petty of me to use the starmaking machinery of this site to strip away the golden laurels that MTV deigned to place around his cornfed, pretty-boy brow. But it must be done. The non-stop reruns of Punk'd on the Erstwhile Music Channel were bad enough. The Rolling Stone cover, with his Kutcherian goodies on lascivious display, was more than enough, a thumb on the deli scale of incipient superstardom. He even got himself a piece of a restaurant and some sort of P. Diddy connection, harbingers of doom more ominous than a Leno monologue joke. He really just jumped out of the Biplane of Acceptable Celebrity without a parachute and is watching the Washed-Up Ground of Corey Feldman spin towards him at breakneck speed.

But this whole Demi Moore thing is really taking the Cult of Ashton about five steps too far. Tadpoling is a bad precedent to set for the pretty boys that will wash ashore in the wreckage of his It-Boy yacht party. Does he think that Josh Hartnett or Frankie Muniz (once he gets pubes) are going to want to date a rapidly-sagging Sharon Stone or Melanie Griffith once she gets tired of Antonio's philandering? It's a classic case of flavor-of-the-month hubris. Personally, I think Ashton is perfectly aware of what he's doing, setting up an epic Punk'ng of Heath Ledger and Tobey Maguire. He snatches up the surgically rebuilt, Pilates-and-hot-yoga toned Moore while he watches all the other pretty boys struggle for the old lady scraps, hoping that the Pffeifers and the Basingers trolling Hollywood hook them on their under-30-test fishing lines. AK has a good laugh, he learns how he stacks up against Bruce, and the rest of the world ridicules his imitators while decrying the double standards that have allowed naugahyde scarecrows like Garry Shandling to ever get laid.

Ashton, you're done. Your fan pages will soon be consigned to the Google cache. Please validate your valet parking slip for The Standard Downtown on your way out.

And I should make it perfectly clear that this declaration of Ashton's official over-ness has nothing to do with my failing relationship with Rue McClanahan, Golden Girl sexpot. As usual I was months ahead of the trend and did it bigger and better than everyone else.

It had nothing to do with (as has been widely reported) her meltdown during a recent performance in our sold-out run in "Love Letters" at the Kodak Theater. I just couldn't handle the animal carnality of her twice daily hot flashes, and our work was suffering.

I'm not getting any younger, you know.



About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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